Mazra Maine

Starting at the end

"He had decided to live forever, or die in the attempt."

-Catch-22, Joseph Heller

Five stood on the platform, ready for the hanging. The hangman stood back, tightening the nooses. He wore no hood; he saw no shame in delivering their deaths. The pastor sat idly, with his feet hanging off the edge of the platform, consulting his text. Finally, he snapped it shut, and bent his head to consult other sources.

Each prisoner stood in front of their noose, waiting. The first on the left was lanky, his clothes hanging off of him. His face would have been just as gaunt and angular as the rest of his body even if he hadn't been starved. Dark brown hair, dirty and disheveled, should have softened him as a whole, but his glare, constantly scanning the crowd like a raptor, was just visible through his locks, and hardened him all the more.

The next prisoner could have been his twin. She was just as thin and dark, only slightly more curvy than angular. Her hair was a tangled mess, a single mass stopping around mid-back. She also looked out over the crowd, eyes darting, wild and ready.

Last stood a monster of a man, dwarfing both the other prisoners. He had coffee colored skin, and tight black curls cropped close to his head. He didn't need to glare as the other two did-- his body was enough of a presence. Instead, he stared at the girl for a moment, then turned, fixated on a rooftop, waiting.

The pastor stood as a sixth and final man stepped up, carrying some papers. The siblings turned to his in unison, identical expressions of loathing on their faces. The portly man physically stumbled back under the force of their glares, and scittered around the edge of the stage. Smoothing out his greasy blond hair, he began to read.

"Horace Strix, Level 2," he began. The hangman stepped forward, roughly grabbed the man's neck, and ripped the right shoulder of his shirt open. Four welts stood out red against his skin, with a single black line, a tattoo, in the middle of the welts. One welt seemed to wrap from the nape of his neck to his throat. It had been visible with his shirt on. The one next to it started on his back, and sat right where his shoulder turned into his neck. Because of the cut of the shirt, this one could also be seen with his shirt on. It crossed over his collarbone, and finished on his chest.

Then was his tattoo. It was a quarter of an inch wide, and stood solid and black in-between the welts. It was bold, but sad and lonely between the red scars.

The next welt was almost right where his collarbone started, and wrapped down his pectorals. The final welt was right on the edge of his shoulder, and its scar made a strong, jagged bridge across the small gap between his arm and chest.

All five of the marks ran parallel with each other, and were all about the same length. They all started about the same spot, and finished at about the same spot. When he was wearing a normal shirt, the ones on the edge just peaked out, subtly there for the world to see. And now that he was standing bare in front of a crowd, waiting to hang, the world hissed their disapproval of him.

"You have been charged with the crimes of breaking and entering, impersonation of a member of the Guard, theft, breaking level law, general disrespect of the law and its officers, and the murder of our late Chancellor." At the last statement, the crowd roared its distaste for him. The man had enough nerve to smile, a little quirk in the corner of his mouth. The people shook their fists, and he jeered back at the crowd, his grin growing larger, until he was laughing.

"You will be hanged for these crimes," the man yelled, trying to be heard over the crowd.

Horace continued laughing, and turned to his. "Osander Downs," he called in a voice deep and powerful despite his prior abuse. "You flatter me."